


Practice Makes Perfect

by klose



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne Is Emotionally Constipated Sometimes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klose/pseuds/klose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce tries to ask Dick out on a date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice Makes Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> A Chinese translation of this story is also available [here](http://m-u-you.lofter.com/post/1cb3fdd6_bc1ed8d). Cheers, [muyou](http://archiveofourown.org/users/muyou/)!

Bruce cleared his throat. “I would be most honoured if —”  
  
He cut himself off with a shake of his head. Less formality.   
  
“I’d really love to—”  
  
No. Too casual.   
  
Bruce smoothed his hands over his jacket, brushing imaginary lint off the lapel and adjusting the collar. He looked straight into the mirror, projecting confidence with straightened shoulders and a slight furrow of his brows that the Gotham Gazette had often described as “smouldering”.  
  
”Dick,” he began, pitching his voice low, letting it hover between the velvety tones of playboy Bruce and the gravel of Batman, “I would enjoy nothing more than to take you out to dinner.”  
  
As he continued to smoulder in front of the mirror, light footsteps sounded outside his bedroom suite. There weren’t many who could get that far without Bruce noticing, distracted or not. Even in the soft footfalls, though, Bruce could hear a gentle cadence. Only Dick ever made something as ordinary as walking so balletic, even in sound.  
  
“Bruce?” Dick poked his head through the open door, dressed in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and dark denim jeans. His wavy hair fell into his eyes, and he looked fantastic. “I just got in. Alfred said you wanted to talk to me?”  
  
Faced with the reality of Dick’s easy smile, and shining cerulean eyes, all of Bruce’s practiced words evaporated from his lips, leaving his mouth dry. The intelligence that had made him an invaluable leader of the JLA — that had made him such a formidable force in Gotham — abandoned him entirely.   
  
All he could do was stare blankly back at Dick, and watch as the smile faded from the younger man’s shapely mouth, twisting down into a frown. His eyebrows knitted together, forming harsh lines that seemed out of place on his youthful face.   
  
“What’s wrong?” He seemed to be trying for a mild tone, but the levity had disappeared from his voice. “What’ve I—”   
  
“Dinner,” Bruce pushed out hoarsely, sensing that the conversation was about to take an unfortunate, irreversible, unwanted turn. “You and me.”  
  
Dick had always been so open with his emotions, and the play of them across his face was plain to see. Not least to Bruce, who had known him for so many years, and who had spent so much time studying his wide range of expressions. Now Dick’s eyes widened, lips parting ever so slightly, betraying his confusion and surprise. Maybe a little doubt.  
  
“Right now? That  _is_  what I’m here for,” he said slowly. “The monthly family dinner, since we find it next to impossible to get everyone together otherwise, though really—”  
  
“Out,” Bruce amended. “ _Just_  you and me. Please,” he added, after a moment’s thought.   
  
Dick stared at him for eight seconds. Eight seconds that were more like a century, during which Bruce felt — to his complete embarrassment, and wasn’t  _that_  unfamiliar and uncomfortable — the makings of a flush filling his face.  
  
Bruce had always prided himself on his stoicism and control over even involuntary bodily functions, but something about this situation left him… anxious. Vulnerable. Not just at that particular moment, but for every minute of the past several months besides.   
  
He’d spent each waking second planning and planning the whole thing in his mind, then rehearsing it, and still he’d managed to bungle it. He was  _blushing_ , god damn it. His cheeks may as well have been burning from the heat suffusing through them.  
  
At the end of the eighth second, Dick blinked. “Are you asking me out, Bruce?”  
  
Phrased that way, Bruce’s first instinctive reaction was to bristle and protest. But he swallowed it down, past the lump in his throat, and forced himself to nod. “Yes. Yes, I am.”  
  
Dick took another four seconds to digest that. Then the corners of his mouth turned up, forming the hint of a grin that seemed to glitter brightly in his eyes. “That’s good, because… I’d love to.”  
  
That hit Bruce like a cement block. Although to his recollection, cement blocks had never felt so  _pleasant_. He allowed his mouth to curve up in a small smile. “It’s a date, then.”


End file.
